


Bushman's Rules

by ChillsofFire



Series: Fight Club AU [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Fight Club - Freeform, Fight Club AU, Inspired by Fanart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 15:33:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16767934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChillsofFire/pseuds/ChillsofFire
Summary: The team pushes a little too hard, a night out takes an unexpected turn, and Sniper's patience finally runs out.





	Bushman's Rules

**Author's Note:**

> I really hate titles...  
> This was inspired by fanart by trashyscarface on tumblr, which you can see [here!](http://trashyscarface.tumblr.com/post/174667769802/plot-twist-the-supports-idea-of-a-day-off-is)  
> The idea was too good to resist!

Support was never an easy role to play.

Someone was always waiting to bitch. Why didn’t you shoot him? How did you not see them?! I needed help over there!

It had taken Sniper some time to get use to the part. Before taking this job he’d always worked alone; offense, defense, back up, it had all been on him, no one had been there to help him out. And he’d been fine with that. Now he had a team; eight other people running in every direction while the opposition tried to pick them off.

He tried his level best to watch them all. It was his job, it was what he was being paid for, and he was a professional, damn it. Of course he was going to give it his all. And he thought he did a bloody good job, thank you very much.

But as time passed, as they all adjusted to respawning, to death being reduced to a mild inconvenience rather than a permanent inevitability, it became a little harder to keep up with everything.

Everyone became bolder, more reckless. The other side started rushing the field where average men would hesitate, started actively seeking Sniper out instead of attempting to avoid him; the fear of a bullet between the eyes now replaced with the knowledge that they would be back again with a better idea of where he was. His own team, in a similar fashion, started jumping ahead, over confident, always assuming that their own Eye in the Sky would take care of any threats before they got to them.

No one seemed to remember that there were eight of them. Or that there were nine on the other side. No one seemed to consider the idea that it was impossible to watch seventeen people at once, that it was difficult to predict the moves of the numerous, wildly different, and ever changing styles all at play on the battlefield. Or that he was only one man. That he had his own back to watch too. Because no one else seemed keen on returning the favor and watching it for him.

It had taken time, but he’d adjusted. They all had. This job had a steep learning curve, and Sniper had set himself to the task of conquering it. He found his rhythm, learned new tricks. The battles continued. His skills improved. The team began to come together. Time continued to march on.

The comments never stopped.

Usually they were easy to ignore; most of the time they were said in good fun, delivered as playful jabs and returned as playful banter. And when they weren’t, well, everyone had bad days. Sniper would be lying if he claimed he’d never lashed out at a teammate after a hard day on the field.

But sometimes, sometimes it was too much. Sometimes Sniper went to bed angrily envisioning the ways he’d end his teammates’ lives. Sometimes Sniper was just that much more thankful that he had his own trailer, his own place away from the base.

Sometimes even having his own space just wasn’t enough, though.

Tonight was one of those times.

It had been a rough match; something had been missing in the base, a vital piece was just _gone,_ leaving everything feeling off balance and out of sorts. No matter what they did, the team just couldn’t get itself together. They’d lost the battle spectacularly. And of course, it was supports’ fault.

Hours later, after Sniper had taken his leave for the sanctuary of his camper and the open sky, the comments and insults were still circling his head. It took all he had to stop himself from marching back into the base and feeding Scout a healthy helping of his fist. The boy had too big a mouth for his own good.

 _Bloody mongrel._ Sniper felt his lips twitch in a silent snarl, and drew his whetstone over his kukri with just a little too much force. The light of his campfire reflected off the smooth steel, the soft yellows and oranges of the flames dancing dangerously over the blade. For a moment, he allowed himself to picture what his weapon would look like if there was a bit of blood shimmering in the light as well.

He’d been on the job barely six months, but he was already reaching the point of wanting to murder his teammates. Fan-bloody-tastic.

Sniper dragged his whetstone over his blade again, harder than necessary, and watched as a small shower of sparks fell across his boot.

“Feeling a bit tense, are we?”

 _Bloody hell…_ Sniper willed himself to be patient.

“What do ya want, Spook?”

There was a small indignant huff from behind him, and Sniper readied himself for one of Spy’s customary sneers.

“Medic thought it would be a good idea to extend an invitation to you.”

Sniper sat up a little straighter, his hand stilling as he turned to glance over his shoulder. Spy was watching him, a lit cigarette hanging from his lips, its glowing tip a floating ember in the night. He was missing his jacket and tie, but the rest of his typical suit remained. It was probably the most casual look Sniper had ever seen on him. True to his word, he stood beside Medic, who offered Sniper a tight, uncharacteristically forced smile. Sniper raised an eyebrow.

“Invitation?”

“For a night on the town,” Spy lightly pulled his cigarette from his mouth, blowing smoke out into the air in a controlled breath. He watched it drift away, and though Sniper was curious to know the reasoning for this impromptu visit, he didn’t rush the explanation. Spy’s movements were smooth, nonchalant and seemingly indifferent, but Sniper could see the tense way he was holding his shoulders, the way his arm was being held too tightly behind his back.

Sniper looked from one man to the other. Medic was standing with his hands behind him, eyes focused on the fire over Sniper’s shoulder. His jaw was clenched, his posture stiff.

“Hm,” Sniper picked up his kukri, leaning forward to grab its sheath so he could put it away, “Need a bit of fresh air, do ya?”

“The base is not a welcoming place tonight, mein Freund,” Medic shifted his gaze, focusing on Sniper again, “We thought our time could be better spent elsewhere.”

Sniper nodded once, grabbing his whetstone before pushing himself to his feet. He didn’t need to ask for more. Soldier and Demo had been particularly nasty to Medic tonight, and Spy had looked close to strangling Engineer when Sniper had slipped away.

“Could use a drink,” Sniper gestured to his fire, “Let me put this out.”

“I’ll get the car,” Spy took one last drag from his cigarette before flicking it into the fire. Smoke swirled around his head as he turned away, starting the walk back up to the base.

“Let me,” Medic stepped forward as Sniper reached for the bucket of water he’d had sitting at the ready.

“I got it, doc, no worries.”

“Herr Spy is not going to want to wait,” Medic curled his fingers around the handle, effectively stopping Sniper from pulling the bucket away from him, “and it would be best if you were not in uniform when we left.” He glanced pointedly at the patch on Sniper’s sleeve.

Sniper cast a look at his own arm, then turned his attention back to Medic, who offered a small nod and pulled lightly at the bucket.

“Lass mich das machen. You go get ready.”

Sniper let the bucket slip from his grasp, watching as the other man straightened up and turned toward the fire.

“Thanks, doc.”

=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=

Their current base was located at least an hour out from any local towns, and the car ride passed in a strange, but not uncomfortable, silence. Sniper folded himself into the backseat, sitting behind the driver and stretching his legs out behind the passenger seat. He kept his boots off the upholstery, because Spy had given him a sharp glare when he saw what he was doing, and it had been a hard enough day for all of them. Sniper saw no reason to irritate him further.

Medic sat with his elbow resting on the door, his chin cupped in his palm as he stared out the window. Spy drove without a word, his right arm on the rest between the seats. The radio was on, turned up just enough for music to be audible. It wasn’t anything Sniper had ever heard before. Though that didn’t surprise him, really.

Sniper leaned against the side of the car, arms crossed over his chest and hat tipped low over his eyes. He peered out from under the brim once, when he heard Medic shifting in his seat in order to adjust his vest and undo the top button of his shirt. Sniper resisted the urge to snort softly. Both Medic and Spy still seemed overdressed to him, missing only their coats and ties. He’d been content to tag along in his t-shirt and a pair of jeans. But hey, whatever helped them unwind.

He was almost dozing off when Spy stopped the car, parking in front of the nearest town’s local bar. It didn’t look like much, a simple brick building with a brightly lit sign, but it seemed relatively busy, and friendlier than many of the places Sniper had found himself in before.

Spy was clearly having different thoughts. He regarded the building with harsh criticism in his eyes, his hand hesitating on the key as if he wasn’t quite ready to kill the engine just yet.

Medic made the decision for him. The car door was pushed open before Spy had a chance to shift into reverse, and then the seat was moving forward so that Sniper could worm his way out of the back. Spy gave a long sigh before shutting the car off, stepping out of his door with clear disapproval on his face.

“Beer’s a beer, Spy,” Sniper stretched himself out a bit, “It won’t bite ya, promise.”

Medic let out a small chuckle, adjusting his glasses as Spy shot Sniper a slightly reproachful look before sighing again.

“I suppose it will do for tonight.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Sniper led the way inside, adjusting his hat as he stepped through the door. The room was filled with loud conversation, drunken laughter, and some rock song they couldn’t quite make out over the rest of the noise. Smoke from cigarettes and cigars wafted from some of the tables and patrons at the bar. A few people cast them curious looks, their eyes lingering as they attempted to make sense of Spy’s mask, but when they noticed the look on the three men’s faces, none of them felt it was worth making a scene about. Spy seemed unbothered by the attention.

“I assume you both intend on ordering beer?” He asked as he stepped around Sniper and Medic, looking over his shoulder at them.

“Ja, that will do fine. We will find a seat.”

Spy nodded once, then continued on to the bar, smoothly stepping into a space between two stools to talk to the bartender.

Medic and Sniper made their way to the booths in the back, sliding in to the first empty one they found. Spy joined them a moment later, setting two brown bottles on the table before he moved in next to Medic. A glass of what Sniper guessed was either scotch or brandy was held lightly in his hand. Sniper nodded his thanks. He grabbed his drink, taking a swig of it before setting it down again. He reached up to pull his hat off, dropping it on the seat next to him and bringing his hand back up to run his fingers through his hair. A low sigh escaped him.

“Quite the day, hm?” Medic gave him another small smile, his fingers wrapped loosely around his own beer.

“That’s a polite way of putting it,” Spy muttered against the rim of his glass before sipping lightly at its contents. Sniper grunted in agreement.

They let silence settle over them again, nursing their drinks as the sounds of pool balls clacking together and muddled conversations washed over them.

“You were rather quiet today, Herr Sniper,” Medic broke the table’s spell, slowly spinning his half empty bottle between his hands, “I normally hear your rifle much more often.”

“Had to keep movin’ around,” Sniper huffed, “Bloody BLU weasel was always right on my tail. Could barely get a look through the scope without him tryin’ to bury his knife in me back.”

Medic nodded, “He’s been rather fixed on you lately.”

“You’re tellin’ me.”

“He was hovering close to base today,” Spy spoke up, lightly setting down his glass. “He must have been waiting for you to come out of respawn after every kill. When he wasn’t busy following you, he was targeting our Engineer’s precious machines.”

“And you know this because…?” Sniper quirked an eyebrow.

“I saw him, once, for a brief moment. And the laborer was rather unhappy with it. He took it quite personally.”

“Is that what he was so angry about?”

Spy hummed an affirmative, his attention focused on his hands as he began to roll up his sleeves, “He was adamant that I was singlehandedly responsible for the actions of the enemy’s spy.”

“Well, if ya saw him, why didn’t ya stop him?”

Spy looked up, meeting his gaze coolly, “I was busy attempting to avoid being set on fire.”

“Ah. Their pyro had it out for ya, did he?”

“Indeed.”

“I’m surprised Scout wasn’t waiting to, how does he put it? Ah, ‘run circles around the fiery freak’.” Medic lifted his bottle for another drink.

Spy’s mouth twitched in a barely there smile, “His presence would have been a good distraction, at least.”

Sniper snorted, “That mangy ankle-biter was too busy pickin’ fights he couldn’t win.”

“And blaming you for not covering him?” Medic asked, clearly referencing the very public scene Scout had started as they’d all dragged themselves back into the base.

“Yep,” Sniper drained his beer, setting the empty bottle off to the side, “What about you, doc? Soldier and Demo weren’t happy with you.”

“ _Gah…_ ” Medic set his elbows on the table, rubbing his hands over his face, “Those _Dummkopfs!_ Blasting themselves across the field, and crying for help when they injured themselves! And then having the nerve to accuse me of ignoring them!”

“You were stickin’ pretty close to Heavy, to be fair.”

Medic lowered his hands, fixing Sniper with a hard look, his voice dropping to a low growl, “He was the _only one making any progress_. I was killed three times trying to find our Soldier. I was not going to waste my time trying to track them down!”

Sniper leaned back just a bit, lifting a hand in surrender as Spy shifted slightly away from Medic, eyebrows rising in surprise at the outburst, “No offence meant, mate.”

Medic sighed, his shoulders dropping from their tense hold, “I’m sorry, I’m just growing tired of being blamed for others foolishness.” He pulled his glasses from his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I cannot be in eight places at once.”

“I feel yer pain,” Sniper slumped back against the seat and drummed his fingers once over the surface of the table.

Spy picked up his glass again, tilting it slightly in their general direction in silent agreement before raising it to his lips to take a long drink, his eyes drifting out over the room. Medic shook his head, still holding his nose, then put his glasses back in proper position and grabbed his bottle, quickly swallowing down the rest of his beer.

Sniper signaled for another round, and the three of them settled in for the night.

Conversation began to flow more freely as time ticked by, their stoic professionalism and stony masks dropping under the warmth of alcohol and the comfort of like-minded company. Grumbled complaints turned into dry jokes. Smiles became a little less tense. Real emotion began to worm its way into their forcibly even tones as they allowed themselves to relax.

“Ha!” Medic slammed his newest empty beer bottle onto the table, laughing loudly at a comment Sniper had made about the others walking in their shoes, “They would be dead in seconds!”

“Agreed,” Spy grinned as he lifted his drink, his eyes flicking over the room again; Sniper had noticed him doing that for some time now, looking away and towards another table whenever he could cover the movement; though he had never faltered on their conversation, “I would love to see any of them attempt to do my job.”

Sniper raised an eyebrow, his curiosity about Spy’s behavior getting the better of him, “What’re you seein’?” He resisted the urge to turn around to try to see for himself; Spy had been watching something, or someone, for a while, and he knew better than to draw unneeded attention or raise any alarms.

“Hm?” Medic looked between them, confused by the sudden subject change; he hadn’t seemed to notice that Spy’s attention had been divided.

Of course, he hadn’t been watching him like Sniper had. Sniper had taken the night as an opportunity to observe his coworkers a little more closely; seeing them in such a casual setting was a perfect opportunity to learn more about them. So he had noticed when Spy’s gaze had started to wander and linger, his eyes watchful and guardedly curious.

“Is something wrong?”

“I’m not quite sure yet,” Spy met Sniper’s gaze. If he was surprised that Sniper had picked up on what he was doing, he didn’t show it.

Medic and Sniper didn’t get a chance to reply. Spy’s attention was drawn to the side again, and when Sniper stretched and pretended to be looking over his shoulder toward the bar, he saw why.

A group of three men were standing up from their table, casting careful looks around the room. Sniper kept his gaze moving, not wanting to be caught watching them.

“Spy, wait-” He turned back at the sound of Medic’s voice, just in time to see the last traces of Spy disappearing beneath his cloak, already standing from their booth.

“Spy-”

“Sh!” Spy’s disembodied voice was sharp, and Sniper fell silent with a small huff, rolling his eyes behind his glasses as he turned back to Medic. Medic shrugged and reached for Spy’s half-finished drink.

“Let him have his fun.”

“Long as his fun doesn’t lead to us gettin’ shot at. I’ve had enough of that for the day.” Sniper brought his beer up for another drink, leaning back against the booth, his ears peeled for any sounds of trouble.

They didn’t have to wait long for Spy to return. Medic jumped as the cushion beside him dipped under an invisible weight, and when Spy became visible again, his eyes were bright with a strange gleam, an excitement Sniper hadn’t seen in them before.

“Gentlemen,” He leaned over the table so he could lower his voice, being careful to not be overheard even with the noise around them, “Have either of you been to a fight club?”

=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the general mood of the night, or the air of excitement the words _fight club_ brought to the table. Maybe it was just the fact that they didn’t feel ready to go back to the base.

Whatever it was, the three mercenaries soon found themselves on the outer reaches of the city, sneaking through a side door into an abandoned factory building. There was no mistaking that they were in the right place.

Excited shouting filled the empty space, echoing off the walls to make the crowd sound three times its size. Lines of blue tape dictated the fighting ring, the border of frenzied spectators keeping the fighters in proper place.

Two men were already well into a fight. Sweat dripped from their faces, blood shone wetly on their shirts and their skin, dripping from their noses and knuckles. One of them sported a split lip, while the other was struggling to see through an eye that was already beginning to swell shut.

“This one ain’t gonna last long!” Sniper had to lean closer to his coworkers to be heard over the yelling.

Spy nodded in agreement, but was cut off from responding when Medic let out a shout with the rest of the crowd, already being swept away by the excitement around them. Sniper pulled his eyes from the fight to look over at him, a small grin tugging at his lips when he saw the wild smile on Medic’s face.

“He seems pretty taken with this, ‘ey Spy?” He shifted his gaze.

It wasn’t clear if Spy had even heard him. His eyes were glued on the fight, that bright _something_ from earlier shining in them again. Sniper felt his grin grow. Medic wasn’t the only one getting into it.

Sniper had to admit that it was easy to be caught up in the energy of the room. The alcohol in his system already had him feeling warm and pliant, and the enthusiastic cheering around them, the unrestrained roars of approval, the calls for more, more, _more!_ It appealed to a baser nature inside him. He could feel his heart pounding harder in his chest, his body twitching as if prepared to dodge attacks that weren’t aimed at him, and he couldn’t help but lean in a little more when the men exchanged another round of blow.

The fight lasted another eight seconds. A well placed punch sent the man with the split lip spinning on his feet, his eyes rolling in his head. He was unconscious before he hit the ground. The crowd erupted into boos and cheers and hisses as the man was dragged out of the way to make room for the next round.

When Medic pushed forward, moving closer to the edge of the make-shift ring, Spy and Sniper followed without question.

It was hard to look away. Hard to deny the pleasure that watching the fights brought. Sniper had thought that he would be tired of this by now; he spent day after day in a never ending war, watching men fight it out with guns and bombs and blades.

But this was different. Out there, on the field, he watched through a scope. The lens, the distance, sometimes left him feeling like a spectator, his main satisfaction only coming when he pulled the trigger and watched a head turn into a cloud of red rain. Now he was closer; so close that he could reach out and suddenly find himself drawn into the bloodshed. Submerged in a way he hadn’t been in months. He could smell the sweat, the blood, hear the solid sounds of fists connecting with flesh and bone. The danger was in front of him, behind him, all around him. It was exhilarating, intoxicatingly familiar, and oh so hard to pull away from.

“I see some new faces tonight!”

The crowd roared as the man in charge of the night stepped into the center of the ring again, the loser of the last fight being dragged out behind him. He circled slowly where he stood, his eyes drifting over the crowd. They swept over the mercenaries, and out of the corner of his eye, Sniper saw Spy tilt his head forward just slightly, ever focused, preparing himself for a challenge.

“We’re always hungry for fresh meat!” The man continued, and the responding cheer was close to deafening. A new fighter stepped over the tape, his presence met with more cheers, more yells and whistles. The announcer gestured toward him, stepping to one side so that the fighter could take center stage.

“A man who needs no introduction! Our reigning champion! The one, the only, Cerberus!”

Sniper snorted, one eyebrow quirking up as the crowd fell back into frenzied cheering. Beside him, Spy crossed his arms over his chest; head still tilted forward, a grin spreading over his face. If he turned his head a little, Sniper could just see Medic on Spy’s other side, his shoulders barely shaking enough to be noticeable as he laughed.

“Who dares to face him!?” The announcer began to walk along the tape, looking out over the crowd, “Who thinks they’re tough enough to face the champion!?”

“I believe this is the time to take our leave, gentlemen,” Spy took a small step back, not looking away from the men in the ring.

“Hold on a minute,” Sniper turned his head so his voice could carry to his companions, but his eyes remained firmly fixed on ‘Cerberus’, watching the way he basked in the crowd’s attention, “I want to see what happens.”

“It’s getting late, Herr Sniper,” Medic leaned around Spy’s back, voice just barely audible over the noise, “and we have our own battles in the morning.”

“Just one more round, mate!” Sniper met Medic’s eyes for a moment before nodding toward Cerberus. He was circling the ring now, fists in the air as he prowled around the space. His eyes scanned the crowd hungrily, a beast looking for easy prey. He radiated strength, his head held high with pride, “He promises a good show!” 

“Do you plan on being part of it?” Spy asked, sarcastic and clearly impatient.

Sniper laughed, “Nah, the fight would be over too fast!”

It was Spy’s turn to laugh, “Yes, and would end with the Medic and myself dragging your unconscious body to my car.”

Sniper stilled. His attention turned from the fight, focusing solely on Spy now, “What are you sayin’?”

“Come now, Sniper, you cannot honestly expect me to believe you would last long in that ring.”

“And why not? You think I couldn’t take him?”

Spy raised an eyebrow at Sniper’s sudden change of tone, his own now carefully measured, “I think we need you in one piece for tomorrow. Fighting like this is not your strong suit. Let another fool face him, we need to leave.”

But Sniper wasn’t backing down, not now. Fighting wasn’t his _strong suit?_ He was needed in _one piece?_

“You sayin’ I can’t fight?”

Medic fidgeted behind Spy, casting a glance at the people around them, “Perhaps now is not the best time to disc-”

“You’re good at what you do, Sniper,” Spy cut him off, unaffected by Sniper’s heated snap, “And what you do is hide in the bushes, and shoot people from far away. Fist fights are _not_ your area of expertise.”

Sniper inhaled sharply, his fingers curling into fists as he glared Spy down.

On another night, he might have let it go. On another night, he might not have taken as much offense. What Spy said was true; his role here was to shoot people from a distance. But that was not the only thing he could do. And tonight, he’d been pushed to the brink of his patience.

_Oh boo hoo, your job is so frickin’ hard! Must be rough sittin’ back watchin’ us run around through your little scope!_

_Have you ever even_ been _in a real fight before?_

_Yeah, that’s right! Walk away ya frickin’ coward!_

He’d had enough of being talked down to. He’d had enough of being underestimated.

The voice in his head telling him to walk away was quiet; dulled by the earlier beers, smothered by wounded pride.

Scout thought he was a frightened camper? Spy didn’t think he could fight? He’d show them. He’d show all of them what he was capable off.

Sniper yanked his hat and glasses off and shoved them into Spy’s chest with a growled, “Hold these.” Then he was stepping across the tape, stepping away from the safety of the crowd and into the ring; front and center for all to see.

“I’ll fight him.”

The announcer and Cerberus both turned to face him simultaneously. Around them, the crowd quieted into shocked ‘ _oo_ ’s before jeers and _whoops_ of excitement filled the air again.

“Looks like we have a volunteer!” The announcer easily made himself heard over the spectators. Cerberus grinned wolfishly, giving Sniper another once over.

“You sure you wanna do this? It won’t end pretty for you.”

Sniper returned the grin, the bright spot lights being used to illuminate the area shining off his bared teeth, “I was gonna say the same to you, mate.”

They moved to the center of the ring, neither of them really listening to the announcer as he rattled off the short list of rules for the umpteenth time that night. Their attentions were firmly focused on each other, on staring each other down and trying to pick out any detail they could use to turn the fight in their favor.

They took their positions; fists up, feet set firm, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

“Kill!”

Sniper had not started life as a fighter. He hadn't been like the other children in his small town. He had never been one to look for fights, had not been eager to start trouble. Not then.

No. He'd preferred to avoid the fists, the mobs of wrestling children. Rocks and high places, those had been his weapons. When the others would come for him, he'd climb the nearest tree and pelt them with stones until they left. But that hadn't always worked. Sometimes he'd had no choice but to stand and fight.

He hadn't been good at it. More fights were lost than they were won. Sniper had not started life as a fighter.

But he'd learned.

He still remembered his first victory. The looks on the other's faces. The wild feeling of his heart pounding in his chest. The wave of euphoria as he realized that he'd come out on top. The wonderful peace that had filled him when, in the days that followed, he was not hounded by groups of fellow children looking for blood.

He still remembered his first bar fight. The man who had drank too much and taken an issue with his silent presence at the end of the bar. The dark grins his friends had worn when Sniper's drink had been swiped out from under his nose. And the shocked silence, the horrified looks of terrified surprise that had replaced the grins when Sniper had left the bar, leaving the man lying in the wreckage of a broken table, unconscious and bleeding.

Sniper had always spent much of his time alone. So he had learned to fight for, and defend, what was his. And he had learned to relish in the rush it gave him, the carnal joy he got from showing an overconfident challenger that he was far from helpless.

He had learned the best way to survive. To keep his distance until the time was right, to be patient. Surviving didn't mean he needed to dive into every opportunity to fight. It just meant he had to be dangerous enough to survive those opportunities; and to show others that he was not to be messed with.

He'd learned, and he'd learned well.

So when the order was given, and Cerberius charged forward, swinging a hard and heavy fist at his head, Sniper was more than ready.

He ducked the first punch, eyes jumping to Cerberius’ feet to watch for any signs of a kick coming his way. He straightened up just in time to block the second fist, his right arm coming up to push Cerberius’ away from his face. Sniper fell back one, then two steps, getting himself out of arms reach.

Cerberius stepped with him, spinning on his foot before aiming a powerful roundhouse at Sniper’s chest. With a rough grunt, Sniper caught his leg against his torso, taking some of the impact but stopping Cerberius from following through and catching his balance. The crowd went wild, their roars ringing in Sniper’s ears.

There was half a second of hesitation. Cerberius swung, well aware that his hands were still free and more than ready to put them to use.

Sniper turned his head, trying to avoid the worst of the blow. Pain erupted over his cheek and jaw as Cerberius' fist made contact, setting Sniper on a spin as he was forced to step back and catch himself.

But Sniper wasn't going down alone. His arms slid under Cerberius' still captured leg, left hand curling around the meaty calf in a white knuckled grip. Sniper viciously shoved Cerberius up and away, sweeping his left foot into Cerberius' ankle as he stumbled.

Cerberius’ yell cut off suddenly, his back hitting the ground with a _thud_ that was lost to the noise of the crowd. He gasped breathlessly, eyes wide, struggling to regain the oxygen that had been forcibly torn from him.

Sniper steadied himself, wiping at his face. Blood colored his palm when he pulled his hand away from his mouth, outlined his teeth when his lip curled back in a snarl.

_Bugger!_

Cerberius made a choked coughing sound as he rolled himself onto his side, already beginning to climb back to his feet. The humor from before was gone from his eyes.

Sniper glanced away from him for a split second, his gaze shifting over the crowd until he spotted Spy and Medic, just off to his left.

They were staring at him, already waiting for him to look in their direction. Medic’s mouth hung slightly open, his lips parted just enough to be noticeable. His eyes were bright behind his glasses, and when he realized Sniper was watching them, his shocked expression disappeared beneath a broad, almost maniacal smile. Spy was harder to read, his face almost expressionless. But he couldn’t hide that _look_ in his eyes.

The bloodied snarl turned into a grin, and then sharp eyes were turning back to Cerberius, watching as he gathered himself.

Sniper lifted his fists once more.

_C’mon then!_

Cerberius charged again, and the fight truly began.

The spectators roared as they pushed each other around the ring. Each landed blow drew deafening howls, each blocked or countered strike was answered with enthralled encouragements or furious curses.

Sniper took a fist to the gut, gagged on the air that shot from his lungs.

Someone yelled, "That's it! Get him!"

Cerberius overreached, and Sniper was quick to punish him, aiming for the unguarded flesh above his kidney.

Outraged screaming echoed off the walls.

Sniper barely heard it.

He was aware of it, the noise that almost made the very air vibrate around him. But that's all it was. Noise. Loud, buzzing noise that was no more important than a mosquito on his ear.

It didn't matter. It meant nothing.

What mattered was the rushing, just like in his childhood. The, possibly imagined, sound of his blood pumping through his veins. The pounding of his heart. The sharp breaths, in and out, that he took as he moved.

Duck. _Out._

Dodge. _In._

Set and strike. _In and out._

What mattered was the feeling of his fist, clenched strong and steady in front of him. He was almost over aware of it now, the shifting of muscles as he adjusted grip and posture and stance.

What mattered was the opponent in front of him.

The battle.

The hunt.

_The kill._

Sniper had missed this feeling. The danger. The _thrill._

He wasn't on the constructed battlefield anymore. There was no respawn here, no instant healing, no calling for help. It was just him again, him and his target. Predator against predator.

This was what the Outback had been like. Tracking wild game, going toe to toe with animals that could take his life at the slightest misstep.

This was what sniping was about. Watching, learning and anticipating the moves of his prey, thinking one, three, ten steps ahead as he waited for the _perfect shot..._

There.

Sniper's chest heaved. Sweat slicked his skin, trapping his hair against his forehead. He raised his arm to stop Cerberius' kick, then peered up and over it without fully dropping his guard.

Cerberius hadn't set himself properly. He was growing tired. Restless. Sloppy.

His next punch left him wide open, his right fist coming down in a wide arc as his left arm swung out, a counterbalance to his improper footing.

Sniper bent his knees.

The punch was easily deflected, and Sniper shoved Cerberius' right arm away with his left, opening him further. Leaving more room for Sniper to spring, push himself up and into his attack.

There was a loud _pop_ as the knuckles on Sniper's right hand connected hard with Cerberius' chin. Whether it was his own hand, Cerberius's jaw, or teeth clacking together, Sniper wasn't sure.

He didn't care all that much. Not at that moment.

Cerberius stumbled back, arms pin wheeling as he tried to keep himself upright. He managed to keep control of his feet, his head came back down, his shoulders hunched as he forced himself to step forward, awkward and still struggling for balance.

Sniper's fist caught him in the cheek, and Cerberius did a full 180 degree spin before he fell to one knee.

His eyes were unfocused when he turned, trying and failing to make sense of the movement around him. Sniper could see the dazed, glossy look beginning to set in.

Cerberius blinked. For a single, shining second, he refocused on Sniper. He saw clearly, he felt no pain. He tried to push himself back up, lip curling.

Sniper struck him again, on the other side of his face. Cerberius reared up, blood and spittle flying from his lips as he finally fell. He landed heavily, nothing more than dead weight against the floor.

The crowd fell silent. Sniper watched Cerberius, seemingly unbothered by the sudden quiet. His chest heaved, the sounds of his ragged breathing and pounding heart filled his ears.

Cerberius didn’t stir. Sniper lowered his fists, leaned back on his heels, and tilted his chin up.

_In. Out._

Cheers and screamed outrage filled the room. Total disbelief, awed acceptance, offended shock, it all wove together in a cacophony of sound.

Sniper let it all wash over him, soaking in the moment. A primal feeling of triumph swelled in his chest, and he couldn’t help but to pull himself to his full height, his shoulders falling back. But Sniper didn’t respond to the crowd. Didn’t raise his fists in victory, or flash them with a cocky grin. He hadn’t started this for glory.

A small limp broke the spell of an otherwise easy stride as Sniper made his way over to his coworkers. He hurt. All over. He could feel the bruise forming around his eye, taste the blood on his lips, was well aware of the soreness in his chest and back, his arms and legs. But none of that hindered the grin slowly spreading over his face.

Spy didn’t flinch when Sniper stopped in front of him. He hardly reacted when the hat and glasses he still held were reclaimed by their rightful owner. But Sniper caught the way his eyes flickered over his face, eyeing the blood and bruises and sweat soaked hair.

Sniper’s grin grew.

“Still in one piece.” He placed his hat on his head, adjusting it just so.

The corner of Spy’s mouth twitched up, “Barely. Now, if your ego is satisfied, we really should be leaving.”

He turned away, pushing through the crowd with relative ease. Medic and Sniper followed after him as he cut a path toward the exit.

“That was _wunderbar_ , Sniper!” Medic clapped a hand onto Sniper’s shoulder as soon as they were out of the building, “Where did all that come from!?”

Sniper laughed, bringing his glasses up to his face, “I’ve picked up a few things.” He rubbed his thumb over his split lip.

“I would say so!” Medic sounded positively gleeful, “I hadn’t expected to see that from you! You were right, the fight was over far too quickly!”

They made their way back to Spy’s car, Medic bouncing happily beside Sniper, who couldn’t completely wipe the smile from his face.

“I can heal you up when we return to base,” Medic reached for the door handle, only to drop his hand when Spy did not immediately move to unlock the car, instead reaching for his cigarette case and leaning against the hood.

Sniper shook his head, “No thanks, Doc,” he leaned his back against the car, copying Spy so he could give his legs a rest. These wounds, these pains, they were the first ones he’d gotten in months that felt normal, that felt disconnected from the chaotic, technology clogged battlefield he was currently calling home. They felt lighter somehow. And Sniper wasn’t entirely willing to let that feeling go. Not just yet.

“Weren’t you in a hurry to leave?” Sniper turned his head to look at Spy.

“I wanted one more moment of peace before going back,” Spy flicked ash onto the ground.

Sniper grunted under his breath, facing forward again. After a brief, thoughtful silence, he held his hand out to the side. There was only a brief hesitation before Spy placed a cigarette in his palm. Sniper shifted it in his fingers, still holding it out in offering.

There was a longer hesitation.

“It’s in my vest.”

An exaggerated sigh, then the click of a lighter. Sniper felt the warmth of the small flame dance over his fingertips.

The sharp _snap_ of the lighter being closed sounded overly loud in the quiet city street. Sniper brought the cigarette to his lips and took a slow drag.

Medic gave Sniper a knowing smile, his hands settling on his hips, “Do you feel better?”

Sniper exhaled a cloud of smoke. His hand throbbed dully, and when he returned the smile, he could feel the sting of broken skin stretching.

 _Have you ever even_ been _in a real fight before?_

“Yeah. I think I do.”


End file.
